All Hallow's Eve
by Kryss LaBryn
Summary: Leroux EC. Erik and Christine attend the All Hallow's Eve masked ball, only to meet someone in a very familiar getup... Sequel to Through A Mirror, Darkly.
1. First Movement

**All Hallows Eve**

_by Kryss LaBryn_

_A/N: I, of course, own nothing, except the slightly worrying young man. If I did, I'd be rich, and could devote my time to writing more phics!_

This is a sequel to Through A Mirror, Darkly. For those of you who haven't read it yet, a brief summary: Erik and Christine got together and are married. Raoul is no longer in the picture. She is (by the time of this story) the Prima Donna at the Palais Garnier, and while Erik cannot, of course, escort her to the various functions at which she is duty-bound to appear, he always, always escorts her to the Bal Masques... 

_As I have mentioned on my profiles page, I am rewriting the last chapter or two of "Through A Mirror, Darkly", to expand upon what's there. Things have gotten rather busy in real life, though, so it's taking a little longer than I had anticipated. In the meantime, I thought I would offer you this little story. Happy Hallowe'en!__  
_

* * *

_ Bal Masque: All Hallows Eve: First Movement  
_

I smiled at my husband in the mirror as he stood behind me and brushed my hair with long, even strokes. Erik loved to brush my hair, and I loved the soothing, sensuous sensation. We both said that he did it because it was difficult for me to do a proper job myself, but we both smiled at the excuse.

But tonight, it was not the _denouement_ to our day, but rather a prelude to our evening. For tonight, the Opera Garnier would throw its doors open to all and sundry in a massive masked ball!

Erik, of course, could not escort me to all the various functions that I had to attend, as the Opera's Prima Donna, but he always, always escorted me to the Bal Masques. We joked with the cast and crew that, while he always managed to be out of town on business when there was a boring dinner with some Minister or other scheduled, he somehow always managed to clear his calendar for the masked dances. "Highly suspicious, I call it," Carolus Fonta, the famous baritone, jested, never realizing the truth he spoke.

Erik had, as usual, dressed out of my sight. After almost six months of marriage, he was still not comfortable with my seeing, or even touching, more skin than his face and hands, although luckily he had no such qualms concerning me. But as he had also, as usual, managed to get dressed much more quickly than I, he had returned to help me prepare.

Tonight, for the All Hallows Eve ball, we were to go as pirates: Erik as a fierce captain, and I as his "saucy wench". He was dressed in a costume topped off with a scarlet coat, of a style a hundred years out of fashion, which would have done any buccaneer proud. His face was hidden behind a full white mask, an exaggerated smile leering from behind a neat goatee as a dark wig brushed his shoulders. A black tricorn extravagantly decorated with what seemed almost an ostrich's worth of feathers waited on the bed behind us.

I myself was not quite ready. I had donned a colourful skirt, artfully ripped, and an almost indecent white blouse, its sleeves cut daringly short for a married woman. My hair whispered against my bared shoulders as Erik arranged my curls in a cascade down my back. Tonight I would wear them loose, with only a scarf knotted about my head to confine them. I donned a small black domino mask, and with Erik's help, the scarf was knotted and adjusted to a jaunty angle, and we were ready.

As usual, Erik had hired a brougham for the evening, as we had no groom in our employ. It arrived promptly at nine; barely half an hour later we had joined the line of conveyances filing slowly past the front of the Opera, although it was quite some time yet before we were able to disembark ourselves.

How I loved the balls! Every light in the whole Opera, whether flame or electric, was blazing away, and a colourful, cheerful throng filled the foyer to bursting, and flowed down the steps outside. A few of the guests seemed slightly the worse for drink, the masquerade having started at sundown, but there was no hurry; the celebration would last until dawn, at least. Most seemed merely gay.

It was a rare treat for me to be able to appear in public with my husband by my side. I gripped his hand tightly for fear of being separated as we navigated the multitude. The guests were packed so thick at the entrance that one really had to force one's way through them, but once inside the press of bodies eased and we could walk, side by side, with something approaching ease.

Erik deftly relieved a passing waiter of two flutes of champagne; one he passed to me with a small bow; the other he merely held. He could not drink through his mask, and as usual would bare no part of his face in public; however, he had found at previous balls that he tended to draw the unwanted attention of courteous hosts without it.

I sipped and we wandered, admiring the extravagant and imaginative costumes. Some were intricate, some hilarious, some were merely clever; all were worth a glance. There were a number of nautical costumes this year; in addition to our own pirate selves there were a few mermaids or sirens, I couldn't quite tell which with some of them, and quite a few other sailors. A caricature of an unpopular political figure chased after several giggling and scantily clad young women, much to the crowd's amusement. Several Marie Antoinettes danced past, arm in arm; the width of the wake of their passing left quite a gap in the crowds.

Through that gap, much to my surprise, lurking in a less-crowded corner I caught sight of what I could only describe as a familiar figure. Nudged Erik with my elbow, I hid a small smile behind my hand. "Is that supposed to be who I _think_ it's supposed to be?" I asked quietly.

He glanced where I indicated, and made a little sound of disgust in his throat. "Please do tell me I didn't look so... ridiculous," he murmured.

"No, you always had an air of dignity about you," I murmured back.

The object of our discussion was a slender man dressed in a slightly too-large black tailcoat, long black cloak, and a soft black hat. His face had been carefully, if not professionally, painted to resemble a skull. There was an air about him, a dreadful eagerness as he stalked about, that reminded me of those silly young enthusiasts of the Brontë sisters' works, who held tea parties dressed as Jane Eyre and the rest. There was something of the same horrid fanaticism in his over-bright glance; something of the same obsession, at once repulsive and pitiable, in the way he swirled the cloak. I found most of the few Brontë enthusiasts I had met to be rather ordinary, if one did not permit them to discuss their particular obsession, but there was something in his eyes as he glanced at me that made me shiver slightly, despite the heat of the room.

"Ah, Madame Daaé!" boomed a familiar voice, making me jump, and there was Monsieur Firmin Richard, one of the managers, bearing down upon us. "Enjoying the party?"

"Yes, indeed, Monsieur," said I, with a small curtsey. "And you?"

"Oh, very much, very much… Good evening, Monsieur!" and he bowed to Erik. "Managed to reschedule the 'business trip', eh?" He chortled, and Erik bowed slightly.

"Of course, Monsieur!"

"Ah, but Madame," Richard turned back to me; "We have a special guest tonight! A very special guest indeed," and to my horror he beckoned the worrying young man over to us.

"Madame Daaé," he continued, as I struggled to compose an air of polite indifference, "Please allow me to introduce Monsieur Jean Claudin. He is a student at the University; he is researching his thesis here. He has been most eager to meet you! Monsieur Claudin, it is my pleasure to present our Prima Donna, Madame Christine Daaé!"

"A pleasure, La Christine!" M. Claudin murmured politely, bending over my hand. "But surely Daaé was your maiden name?"

"It was," I returned, but Richard interrupted, "It's not at all unusual for artists to keep their maiden names for the stage, especially if they were known before their marriage. Why," and he laughed heartily, "_Some_ doyennes of the stage would never be recognised at all, so often would their names change, were they to take their husband's names each time they married!"

"Indeed, said Claudin politely, then examined me again. "But was your father not Charles Daaé? A musician of some renown, I believe."

"He was," I murmured, slightly uneasy. My father's name was well-known indeed—in the countryside in Brittany, where we travelled. Here, in the great halls of the Paris Opera, no one knew of him but my intimates; or so I had thought.

"Did you ever have the chance to hear him play?" asked Erik, I was sure not casually.

"No, I never did," and the young man turned to him with an oddly measuring glance.

"Oh, M. Claudin has uncovered all sorts of secrets in his research here," Richard chortled. "Why, soon all our little peccadilloes will be a matter of public record, I'm afraid!"

"Well, not all of them," murmured Claudin modestly. "I am only interested in the ones that concern the Ghost!"

"You see," said Richard, "He came here to do a paper on, oh, what was it?"

M. Claudin eagerly leapt in. "On the absurd superstitions that cloud the minds of otherwise rational people when they are in a theatre. Silly nonsense, such as it being bad luck to whistle backstage--"

"It _is__extremely_ bad luck to whistle backstage," Erik interrupted calmly. "During a performance, scene changes are signalled to the stagehands with a bo'sun's whistle. As some of the set pieces can weigh several hundred pounds, you can see why it would be simple wisdom that forbids any noises that might be confused with a legitimate signal."

"Well, er, yes, that's true," Richard allowed.

"There are several others, though," the young man glared at Erik, irritated, "But the one that interested me the most was the legend of the ghost who is said to stalk these very halls. You see--"

Richard interrupted, "Our good M. Claudin believes that the Ghost isn't a ghost at all, but a real man! –Oh, drat; there's M. de La Borderie. Excuse me, please." And off he went, calling out heartily to the ambassador.

"If you will excuse us as well, Monsieur," Erik murmured, much to my relief, taking my elbow.

However, M. Claudin was not to be put off so easily. "I have proof," he averred, eyes glittering; "I should very much like to discuss it with you, Madame!"

Erik went quite still for a moment; I myself was slightly stunned. _Proof?_ Did he know that Erik..?

But no; Erik and I exchanged a glance, myself nervously; he, inscrutable through the mask. But M. Claudin paid no attention to him at all; all his attention was fixed upon me. The sudden tightness in my chest eased somewhat, although I remained uneasy. _What proof could he possibly have?_ I wondered. In any case, it seemed best to play along until we could find out what he might actually know, and relieve him of his evidence.

Erik seemed to concur, for he said, with more interest in his voice than I would have been able to summon, "Proof? Truly? Do you have it here with you tonight?"

"I do indeed!" M. Claudin actually rubbed his hands, so eager was he. "Would you like to see it?"

"Very much so."

"Then, please," and he indicated the stairs with a half-bow and a flourish, "Our tour begins in the managers' office!"

This late in the evening, the offices were of course abandoned and locked. However, M. Claudin produced a key from somewhere about his person and quite casually let us in. "Here," he said, pulling a large and rather battered book from a shelf, "See what you make of this!"

It was the Opera's memorandum-book, which began, as usual, with "the management of the Opera shall give to the performance of the National Academy of Music the splendour that becomes the first lyric stage in France", and ends, ninety-eight clauses later, with the statement that the managers must follow the conditions stipulated within. M. Claudin quickly flipped to the end, where, after Clause 98, the usual four conditions had been laid out. However, to this copy, someone had added, in a queer, laboured printing in blotchy red ink, an additional condition: '5. Or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Opera ghost, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year.'

"What do you make of that, then?" he asked in triumph.

Erik and I exchanged a glance. It was hard to tell with that mask on, but he seemed slightly embarrassed. I had known that he seemed to have a great deal of money; I had had no idea that he was blackmailing the Opera for it! I was not very happy about it, I must say. But I could hardly say anything about it, not with M. Claudin standing right there, eagerly awaiting our reactions.

M. Claudin seemed to be put off by our lack of response not one whit. "And look here," he flipped through it a little further, to the part which states which boxes are to be reserved for which important people on what occasions, and pointed to another clumsily-inked addition, also in red: 'Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera ghost for every performance.'

"This hardly proves anything," Erik said, still not quite meeting my glance; "Anyone could have written that in!"

"And only an extremely foolish ghost would have left any kind of evidence of his existence about," I added, not quite addressing M. Claudin. This side of my husband's business dealings did not please me at all.

"It looks to have been written a _very long time ago_," Erik said rather pointedly. "Doubtless circumstances have changed, since then."

"Perhaps," I conceded, while M. Claudin narrowed his eyes at our by-play.

"In any case, you must admit that it has to have been written by an actual person, a real man, and not a mere phantasm!"

"Yes," said Erik doubtfully, "But this hardly proves anything else!"

"Oh, but there's more; much more! Backstage now, if you please!" He added, looking at me from under his brows, "This next bit concerns _you_ rather closely, Madame!"

He led the way back downstairs and then backstage, chattering merrily all the while. "As you know, the 'Ghost' is rumoured to be a skeleton, with naught but a death's head. However, I am convinced, _convinced_, mind you, that in actuality, the skull effect was simply the result of the careful application of greasepaint."

"Why on earth would anyone paint their face up like a skull?" I wondered aloud, exchanging another puzzled glance with Erik behind his back.

"Why, it's because of the superstitious and credulous nature of the theatrical performer! If he looked like anyone else, he would have been kicked out immediately. But by painting his face up, like so," and he indicated his own grease-painted visage, "He would have found it easy to convince you all that he was no mere mortal, but rather a supernatural creature, and hence to be left alone! Besides," and he paused a moment to turn and give us a grin, "I rather suspect he enjoyed scaring _les petit rats_, the little chorus girls. I know I do," and he headed off again.

"Ah, here we are," he cried a moment later, and much to my surprise he stopped outside my old dressing room. As the new Prima Donna I had been forced, quite against my wishes, to take a much nicer, more convenient room; to the best of my knowledge my old room was still unoccupied. My old room, where the Angel of Music used to tutor me…

"Ah, so you are familiar with it, Madame?" he asked, somewhat mockingly, as he turned a key in the lock. "But perhaps it has some surprises left in it yet!" He opened the door and went in.

I held back a moment. "Erik, I don't like this," I whispered.

"Neither do I," he murmured in return, his voice hard, "But I need to know how much he knows! _And_ to whom he has told it…" And with that, he pulled me in behind him.

It was dusty within, and seemed smaller than I remembered. My shabby old furnishings were still present, awaiting the next occupant. A large white sheet covered the mirror at the end of the room. With a flourish, Claudin flipped it free of the ornate frame. "You yourself have a connection to the Ghost, Madame Daaé," he said; "Behold!"

Erik and I regarded the large mirror apparently fixed to the wall. "It's my mirror," I said, then paused, not trusting myself to not give something away. Did he know, then, of the passage it hid?

"It is," and he smiled knowingly. "And more, _as I think you know!_"

"I'm not sure what you mean--" I began, but he cut me off rather sharply.

"There's no need to be coy with _me_, Madame; I know you talked to Mme. Giry about the Ghost; I know you disappeared for two whole weeks, without any warning; and I have _found his note to you!_ Come," and he pressed two fingers to the frame.

Without warning, the glass of the mirror swung back like a door. I could not hold back a small cry of surprise, less, I admit, at the motion of the mirror, and more in shock and fear that he knew how to activate it.

"Do you still pretend to know nothing of this?" I shook my head. "Then look," and he stepped aside, motioning me forwards. "You see there, on the wall… Just a little way in…"

And like the fool that I was, believing that nothing could harm me with Erik near, I stepped through the frame.

Erik stepped forward a moment after me, but with a suddenness and a violence that quite alarmed me, Claudin gave Erik a tremendous shove backwards, and flew through the mirror behind me. Erik only stumbled, but Claudin had already thrown the mirror closed; with a quick sharp gesture he cut a rope to one side, and I heard a dull thud as weights dropped.

"Ha," he panted, stepping back as the glass shook under Erik's frantic fists; "With the pulley system disabled there is no way to open it again from that side. Oh, don't worry," and he took my hand as I shook in terror; "I have no intention of harming you. I simply want a word _in private!_" And with a slight cackle, he clapped a cloth over my face.

The scent of ether filled by nostrils as I struggled, and darkness descended.

Behind the mirror, all was silent.

* * *

_A/N: Next update in three days, me hearties! Please, send me a review if you read! They truly do make my day..._  



	2. Second Movement

**All Hallows Eve**

_by Kryss LaBryn _

_Still own nothing except Jean Claudin. _

* * *

_Bal Masque: All Hallows Eve: Second Movement  
_

I awoke some indeterminate time later with a raging headache, in near total darkness. Only a single lantern, turned low, relieved the unrelenting blackness. I was slumped against a rough stone wall; stone flags were hard beneath me. The chill of them had seeped into my bones; I shivered.

"Ah, I see you are awake," Claudin remarked brightly; he had been sitting quite still in the shadows; I had not noticed him until he spoke. "You must be thirsty. Here!" A small waterskin landed near my feet.

I said nothing and did not touch it; I only drew my feet away from its damp touch. I did not trust him to not drug me again.

He _tsk_ed in annoyance. "It's perfectly safe," he said, swooping down upon it and squirting a short stream of what looked to be water into his open mouth. "If I wanted to drug you again you wouldn't be awake!" He capped it, and once again tossed it at me.

I _was_ thirsty; I still did not trust that he hadn't added something to it, something that he might have an immunity or an antidote to, but as I cautiously tasted it, it did indeed seem to simply be slightly stale water. It tasted rather of the leather bag, but my thirst from the ether overtook me and I drank deeply.

"That's better," he observed approvingly as I wiped my mouth and glared at him. "There's no need to look at me like that; I have no intention of harming you! As I said, I simply wanted a word in private."

"Why have you brought me here?" I asked him, my voice pitched low to hide the quaver in it. _Where was Erik?_

"I told you," his face twisted with annoyance again, "I wanted to have a word _in private_. Don't you ever listen?"

He fairly vibrated; his face was alarming to behold. Perhaps he sensed my fear, for he sat back on his heels, taking a deep breath and visibly composing himself. Only his quivering nostrils betrayed his agitation.

"There is more to this _Opera Ghost _business than anyone thinks, and I believe _you_ know more about it than anyone! I _know_," he added, giving me a hard look, "That you knew him; I know that you stayed here with him!"

"Here?" I glanced around, unsure as to where in the depths of the cellars, for I assumed we were still within the Opera itself, we might be. "But where are we?"

"We are _in_ _his house!_"

"His house? Really?" I looked around me as best as I could in that dim light; indeed, we might have been in Erik's former abode, but, stripped of its furnishings as it was, I would never have recognized it. Gone to our new home were the tapestries, the paintings and shelves of books that had warmed the stone of the walls; gone were the comfortable furniture and the warm Persian rugs. The only sign of human habitation now apparent, besides the lamp, was a rather rickety-seeming cot and other few odds and ends that I could barely make out, shoved into a distant corner. It was a far cry, indeed, from the cosy little haven that Erik had made of it. It almost made me weep to see it in such a state.

"Do you still pretend to not know it? Then what do you make of this, _Madame_?" He thrust a rumpled piece of paper at me. By its shabby appearance, it had been crumpled up, perhaps to be tossed away, and since smoothed. The note it held was written in the same stiff hand as the additions to the memorandum book upstairs, but in black, rather than red:

_My Dearest Christine;_

_You are safe. I have stepped out for a moment, to make arrangements for the care of your Mama, should you wish to stay. I shall be back shortly. Please make yourself at home._

_Your Angel_

"I have never seen it before," I said in all honesty, returning it.

"No?" He folded it and tucked it away in a pocket. "Perhaps not; I found it abandoned in a corner, as if it had fallen out of a dustbin and missed. But can you deny that you yourself are the Christine it addresses?"

If there was one thing that my father's fairytales had taught me, it was to be mindful of a turn of phrase. I took him literally, and answered, again, quite truthfully, "I can."

I could indeed deny it; I would be lying, but I could do it. I never had seen the note before, but I could guess at its origin: Erik must have written it while I was refreshing myself after my first visit to his home. He was there when I emerged; he must have written the note, but, finding me still occupied upon his return, must have discarded it as unnecessary.

However, Claudin gave a great shudder at my words before once again reining himself in. "You lie," he hissed; "I know it's you! I know you know his secret—I _must_ know where he is! He's gone, for the moment—when will he return? Is he still alive, even? _Will he notice **me**__ here?_"

"You?" I laughed, incredulously, despite myself. "Even supposing that such a man ever existed, why would he care about _you_? Stay out of his home, if that's what this is; stay out of the cellars that all know to be his; leave off your pursuit of him, and what reason could he ever have to trouble himself about you?"

Claudin gave me a hard stare. "There cannot be _two_ Ghosts about, Madame!"

"Two? Why would there be--" I trailed off. Did he honestly mean that _he_ intended to take Erik's place? Was _that_ why he was so intent upon what I might know?

"Ah," he sighed, a satisfied sound, "I see you have hit upon it at last! And why not? Why should I _not_ step in, if he has left? Why should I _not_ live here, in private, without any landlords fussing about rent?" His voice rose with each sentence; he was working himself into a frenzy. "Why should _I_ not be the one to control the Opera? _Why should those francs not be_ **_mine?_**"

He strode up and down, ranting; but even as he frothed, I felt a change in the air about us. I could not put my finger upon the reason, but suddenly, I thought we were no longer alone. I strained my senses to the utmost as he continued to rave…

"_He_ could do it, _he_ could fool them all; why not _I_? Why should _I_ not paint my face to scare the little rat dancers? Oh, it is a tidy deal he has here, a tidy deal indeed!"

Did I hear the slightest of sounds in the dark, as of silk gently, slowly sliding over stone? I dared not let the sudden hope I felt show; I dared not let him suspect that someone else might be near, might be stalking him. I had to keep his attention focussed on me. "But why would anyone _do_ such a thing? Why would any perfectly normal man paint his face up like a skull and run around scaring chorus girls if he didn't have to? Why in Heaven's name would _anyone_ consign himself to these depths if he didn't have to? Your theory makes no sense!"

"My _theory_," he spat, "Makes _perfect_ sense. _Obviously_ no sane man would have done such a thing; _obviously _he therefore could not have been sane!" He paused. "Is _that_ why you won't admit it? Do you fear his mad wrath?"

"Monsieur," I began, pleading now, "I do not know how I can convince you; I do not know what you're talking about!"

"_Liar!_" he roared suddenly, terrifyingly. The blow to my face half-stunned me and threw me back against the wall. Crumpled into a heap at its base, I shook my head to clear it, only to find myself staring into the end of a pistol.

It wavered slightly, like a mesmerizing snake; like a helpless bird, I was mesmerized. I swear I could see the ball of lead within, so still, that at any moment might fly out faster than the eye could follow…

"I know you knew him!" he raged; "_Why won't you tell me?_"

_Oh, Monsieur_, I thought, torn between fear and pity; _that was your third mistake_.

I did not realize that I had spoken aloud until he twisted his fingers in my hair and forced me to meet his eyes, thrusting his face down to be even with my own. "What three mistakes, Madame?" he grated. The tip of his pistol dug painfully into the underside of my jaw. "_What mistakes?_"

"The first," I choked out, hardly able to speak with my head wrenched back so, "Is thinking that he painted his face; he has no need. The second is thinking that he is mad…" He snarled; I added, "He is quite, quite sane, I assure you."

"And the third?" he spat, as a silent black shadow rose behind him.

"The third," I glared straight into his eyes; "The third was _hurting his wife!_"

His eyes widened in astonishment. But he must have caught some flicker in my eyes, some hint, for he dropped me again and whirled around. Off-balance, I fell against the wall again and did not see what happened, but there was a loud _crack_ from the pistol, echoing in that empty place; a second, almost simultaneous, duller _crack_; and the _thud_ of a body falling limp to the floor. 

_Oh, sweet merciful Heaven,_ thought I in sudden, heart-rending terror, _please don't let it be Erik... let him be all right..! _

When I looked up again, the Opera Ghost was bending over me, eyes full of anger and concern. The _real_ Opera Ghost…

Gently, he gathered me into his arms, and took my chin in his hands, turning my face this way and that, examining me as best he could in the dim light. "It'll probably bruise," he said, "But that's all, I think. You were wrong," he added almost conversationally, resting his own chin upon my head as I curled, sobbing in relief, into his lap.

"Wrong?" I gasped.

"Yes. His third mistake: He forfeited his life for his treatment of you long before that blow was struck!"

I lay in his wonderful, familiar embrace for several long minutes before I noticed the wetness against my hand. "How did you get here?" I asked. "Surely he must have taken the boat; did you swim?"

"Swim? No, I came through the third cellar; it was the fastest way."

"Then why are you… wet…" Even as I spoke, I realized the truth. The liquid soaking his side was not water, but blood… "Oh, Erik!" I straightened at once, and tried to get his coat off. "You're hurt! Oh, God, Erik, he _shot_ you…"

"I'll be fine," he gripped my hands, forcing them away from his coat and back to my lap. "It only grazed me." But even as he spoke, I could see, now that I knew to look, the size of the dark patch soaking his coat, glistening slightly in the lamplight, crimson on crimson; I could see it slowly growing.

"Nonsense," I said, frantic at the thought that I might lose him. "You're losing a lot of blood, Erik! Please, let me tend to it!" I wiggled out of one of my petticoats. "Here, we can make a bandage…"

"No!" he said sharply, then, doubtless noting my shocked stare, added, more gently, "No, Christine. Not here. Not with that… thing there. Besides," and he forced a lighter note into his voice, "There really isn't enough light; we'd just have to redo it anyways."

"But Erik--"

"Give me your petticoat," and he bundled it up and thrust it inside his coat, buttoning it up tightly to hold it in place. "It'll do for now. You can see to it properly in your old room, if you must. But first, I must attend to this… unwanted guest."

I didn't understand what he meant, and said so. He sighed, his weariness suddenly apparent. "We can't leave him here; if he just suddenly goes missing they'll have all sorts of search parties looking for him, and then sooner or later they too will stumble upon my secrets, and that, sooner or later, will lead them to me. To us." With some effort, he climbed inelegantly to his feet, ignoring my proffered hands. "If they find him in the lake, however, they will assume that he simply slipped on the ledge and broke his neck as he fell; it's happened before." He went to Claudin, bending to slip his hands beneath his arms. "And if anyone whispers that the Ghost was involved, so much the better; no one will officially believe it, but they'll be less likely to allow anyone else to come poking about."

Erik was possessed of a wiry strength, and was usually much stronger than one would think, given his thinness. Now, however, the loss of blood must have made him weak; it was all he could do to stand up while holding the remains of his would-be successor. "Grab his legs," he gasped; "He's too heavy."

God, that was the last thing I wanted to do! I did not want to touch that corpse; I did not want to simply cast him into the lake like a dead fish! "Must we?" I asked. "It doesn't seem right…"

Erik lowered his burden and straightened. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, panting slightly, "He'll be found soon enough, out there; they'll see to it that he has a Christian burial. In here, he'd just rot. They'd never find him. Certainly not while he was in any kind of decent shape." He pressed a hand to his side, wincing slightly. "I can't move him alone, Christine. Not right now…"

I hated to do so, but I couldn't permit Erik to struggle alone and perhaps injure himself further. Besides, he needed attention _now_, and if helping him was the only way to do so… I bent down and grabbed the trousered legs as Erik once again stooped, himself.

It was a struggle, I can tell you, and a hateful task; I am not strong, and Erik was rapidly growing weaker than I had ever seen him, so we as much dragged as carried our pathetic burden through the still-concealed door, I trying not to notice how his head flopped like that of a broken bird. He looked all too much like Erik in that dim light, with his face painted as it was; it was difficult to not let my concern for Erik overwhelm me.

We finally managed to get him to the lakeside outside; as I murmured a small prayer under my breath we lowered him in. There was no light; with the dim lantern in the room behind us we had to work as much by feel as anything else. It made the splash that much louder; I felt that I should hear its echo in my ears for ever.

Erik sat down as soon as his hands were free and rested his head on his knees. I knelt beside him. "Are you all right?" I asked gently, concerned.

He sighed. "I'll be fine. I'm just tired, that's all." He paused, then added, "I've had much worse than this; I think the bleeding's mostly stopped. I just need to rest for a moment."

"You've lost a lot of blood, love." And he couldn't have all that much to spare, not in his thin frame.

"Your petticoat helped, and I think it looks worse than it is. Give me a moment to catch my breath, and we'll be off."

I sat down beside him; we sat in silence for several long minutes before I felt him stir. "I think I can walk now," he murmured. "Shall we?"

It was painful for him to climb into the boat, and I had to row, clumsy though I was, for it pulled too much at his side. But the walk back to my dressing room, while long, was not as bad as I had feared it would be; Erik, rather than weakening further, seemed to be slowly regaining his strength, for which I was deeply thankful.

Still, we had to stop and rest a few times, for both our sakes; it had been a difficult evening! At one such pause, as we rested near a little fountain, Erik remarked, rather distantly, "We should make a point of mentioning to Richard how annoyed we were to be dragged off down to the cellars and abandoned by his silly young student friend."

Oh, no! I hadn't thought about it, but… "We were the last people to see him alive!" My hands flew to my mouth. "Oh, Erik; what if they guess what happened? What if they know that we--" _murdered him_, I couldn't quite say.

"He had a pistol pointed at your head, Christine, and he shot me. He threatened your life, and tried to end mine. Shed no tears for him; nor for yourself! I hardly think that ending his life under such circumstances counts as murder." His eyes snapped in recollection for a moment, before he added, "Besides, no one yet even knows of his death! So if we simply complain of how he left us in the dark to make some silly point or other and disappeared, leaving us to find our way back up alone, then any suspicion ought to be averted. As I said, men have slipped and died there before. The edges can be treacherous; it's why the workers inspecting the footings are not permitted down there alone."

It was not too much later that we finally found ourselves behind my mirror once more. Erik was able to release the catch, although he remarked that he'd need to repair the counterweight system before he could use it properly again. I left him on the little sofa and, taking up the pitcher from the washstand, I went in search of fresh water to clean his wound.

I was not gone long; there was a basin down the hall a little ways in a lavatory where I was able to clean and fill the pitcher. I returned sooner than I had thought; apparently Erik was not expecting such a speedy return, either, for when I opened the door it was to find him trying to tend his wound himself.

He had partially disrobed; he must have been extremely absorbed in his task for I do not believe he heard me enter. His coat lay on the floor in a heap, but his shirt, although also removed, seemed to be stuck to the thickening blood at his side; he was trying, without much success, to loosen it without reopening the wound.

"Here, let me help," said I, placing the pitcher on my dresser and moistening my handkerchief in it. "If you don't use water then it'll just pull open again..."

"Don't you ever knock?" he said abruptly, turning away and attempting to cover himself again with the remains of his shirt.

I scarcely heard him. "Oh my God; Erik--"

Weak-kneed, I sank to the sofa beside him. His back, his poor dear back, and a good portion of his sides, were criss-crossed with scars, flat and pale with age against his skin, as though he had been repeatedly flogged. He eyed me warily; I think he must have been afraid of my reaction to his body itself, but truth to tell, all I could see were those ancient injuries. Trembling, I reached a hesitant finger to a scar curled like the lick of a whip around his right side; he twitched at my touch; I pulled my hand back as though scalded.

"Who did this to you?" I whispered, scarcely able to speak through a thickening rage. Of their own volition, my hands clenched to fists, my teeth ground in fury. "_Who did this to you?_"

I wanted to scream, to howl my wrath to the sky like a beast; I wanted to find whoever had done this to him and tear out their throat with my teeth. I could barely see through my fury...

Looking back at it, I must have seemed like a ravaging Pomeranian, a ridiculous lapdog snarling to protect its master. Erik, bless him, took my rage at face value and did not laugh. He did not take me in his arms; I could not have borne restraints about me, however beloved. He did the only thing that could have cut through my anger: He spoke.

"They're dead," he said, low, certain; "They're all dead. Not a one who laid a hand on me survived. They're all dead..."

His words finally penetrated my fogged brain; I still wanted to kill, but robbed of any prey I had no choice but to calm myself... somewhat. I sat down again, twisting the handkerchief in my hands. "Who did this to you?" I repeated, staring at the wall opposite lest the evidence of his suffering send me off again.

"It was the gypsies; _some_ of the gypsies."

"When you... traveled with them." I had not forgotten the night he had told me of being forced to display himself in a cage; I had simply not considered what might be required to force this man to do anything against his will.

"Yes. When I escaped, I made sure that those who had... treated me so were... suitably punished." He sighed. "I have never had a problem with any Rom since..."

"When was this?" I dared to look at him, his own eyes, unlike my own, dry, distant.

"A very long time ago," he replied, briefly meeting my gaze before examining the wall behind my head. "You were not yet born."

Oh, Erik... "How old were you?" I whispered, already fearing his answer.

"Not old," he said softly. "Truthfully, I'm not even really sure how old I am now. My birth was not something to celebrate..." He barked a dry laugh, still not meeting my eyes, and continued, "Somewhere around nine or ten, perhaps..? Not older than ten, I think."

Oh, God. Oh, Erik… "I'm so sorry," I said, and with a great dry sob threw my arms around him, crying for the man I loved, and the poor little abused boy he had been. "I'm so sorry!"

"It was a long time ago," he murmured against my hair, "And I was avenged. It's the shock, my love; there's no more need for tears." He paused. "And I'm still bleeding…"

Instantly I pulled away, horrified at my insensitivity. "Oh God, Erik; I forgot! Wait here." Hastily I rewetted the crumpled cloth, and hastened back to his side.

As careful as I was, he still grimaced, and grunted once or twice; I think I must have caused him some pain. However, it wasn't _too_ long before we had his ruined shirt freed and his wound cleaned.

In truth, it wasn't very deep at all, for which I was deeply thankful; the bullet had scored a shallow gash along his side, but the bleeding had almost stopped already, although despite my care it was oozing slightly again. However, enough of his shirt remained unbloodied for us to make a makeshift bandage, although my petticoat was ruined, and a bare ten minutes later I was finished.

"Well, it's not quite the way I had intended to wear it," he remarked, tentatively rotating his arm against the pull of the bandaging, "But I think it'll hold until we get home. You did a good job, my love." He smiled; I blushed.

Reaching for his coat, he continued, "I don't think anyone will even notice anything odd about my dress as we leave. Frankly, it's late enough that I could probably walk past on fire and no one would even blink…"

"Do you have to?" I blurted as he slipped an arm into a sleeve.

He cocked the wisp of an eyebrow at me, puzzled. "Set myself on fire? No, I don't _think_ so…"

I blushed deeper. "No, I mean… Do you have to put your coat on? Right away, I mean…"

He paused, the coat still half-off. "I had assumed that you would want to go home as soon as possible, after such an evening," he said carefully, warily. "Was I wrong?"

"No," I hastened to assure him, "No, I do want to get home, only…" I paused, embarrassed.

"Only what?"

"Only…" I paused, then said in a rush, "I never get to _see_ you!"

"Good God, Christine, whyever would you want that?" His amazement was plain.

"Why would I..? Why _wouldn't_ I want that? Erik, you are my _husband_!" I was blushing furiously now. Surely he could feel the heat from my face where he stood… "Why wouldn't I want to look upon you, as you look upon me? I know it makes you uncomfortable, but…"

He sighed, and doffed the coat again, draping it over the arm of my sofa. "Come here, Christine," he said, and I stepped into the circle of his arms, cautious as I embraced him lest I hurt him again. He held me a moment in silence, then said carefully, "I cannot… I cannot fathom why on earth you would want that…" He paused.

_Because I love you!_ I thought, but I held my tongue and waited.

"I do not like being stared at," he started again, then said, in a voice touched with disbelief, "Why on _earth_ would you want to look at me if you didn't have to?"

"Because I love you!" I looked up into his uncomprehending eyes. "Do you doubt that? My love for you?"

"No…" he breathed, still uncertain. "But God, Christine, honestly! _I look like a corpse!"_

"I know, Erik, but…" And then, in a moment of revelation, it hit me: It was not simply that he had been stared at, inspired terror by his very appearance alone. Had none of that ever happened, had not one woman fainted at the sight of him, not one child screamed, not one man cursed him, he would still have spent his life trapped in that body. He needed no one to tell him what he must have known almost from the moment of his birth: He was a horror. He was a perfectly normal man, with perfectly normal desires, interests, emotions; and he was trapped in the body of a corpse.

As terrible as it was to behold him, how much worse must it be to _be_ him! To be surrounded by that dead flesh, unable to run from it, to close one's eyes to it; utterly unable to escape it in any way… I was suddenly surprised, shocked even, that he had lived for as long as he had without going mad or becoming addicted to opium or some other such drug. In his place I do not think I would have lasted long without the oblivion of the embrace of the poppy that I had read about.

I swear that the floor shifted beneath me, so profound was my realization. "I know, Erik," I whispered, and for the first time I saw the recognition in his eyes that I did indeed at last understand. "But I still love _you_!"

He breathed out a great sigh, a long-pent-up breath, still looking at me, half quizzically, half in wonder. "But how can you?" he asked helplessly. "How can you love… _this_?"

"I love this body because _you're_ inside it. I _married_ you because you are _you_." I paused, then gave a small chuckle. "You're still waiting for me to come to my senses and leave, aren't you?" I teased.

He chuckled slightly, nervously, himself. "Am I that obvious?"

"Only to someone who loves you. And I _do_ love you, Erik! You aren't going to get rid of me that easily."

"Thank God," he whispered, and lowered his mouth to mine.

Fiercely, desperately, I returned his embrace. The scare I had had, the fear that I might have been lost to him, and he to me, inspired a hunger for him that I could barely have controlled, had I even wished to. And he answered my hunger with his own, pressing me to him with almost painful strength as his mouth devoured my own. My own hands devoured his body in turn, caressing him, exploring him as I had so longed to ever since our very first meeting, our first kiss, in this very room, so long ago. This time, however, he lowered me not to the floor, but to my small sofa, then divested me of my own blouse, stays, and camisole with an impatience that almost tore the sturdy silks.

I lay back against the cushions, bared to his eyes as he was, finally! to mine, as we drank in the sight of each other for a long moment. My husband. Erik.

Then, with a low growl, he was upon me, and I upon him…

* * *

_A/N: ...And now you **know **I'm evil, because I'm going to make you wait for the rest. Next update on Hallowe'en!  
_


	3. Denoument

**All Hallows Eve**

_by Kryss LaBryn_

_Still own nothing except Jean Claudin... Darn the luck...  
_

_Here you go! The final chapter. My apologies that it is rather shorter than the others. And please do let me know how I did! This is the naughtiest **anything **that I've ever written, and I'm still a little uncomfortable writing in detail about the two of them. But after the end of the last chapter, I was afraid I'd get lynched if I didn't at least try..!  
_

* * *

_Bal Masque: All Hallows Eve: Coda_

With a low growl, he was upon me, and I upon him…

It was heavenly to finally feel him, _him_, against me, flesh to flesh! To be able to explore the hollows beneath each rib, to trace the contours of his spine..! He was still thin, so _very _thin; but under my care he had perhaps filled out just a bit. There was the barest trace of flesh beneath the skin of his chest; his wiry muscles wore the barest padding over them.

I almost laughed aloud to think of his hesitancy in baring himself to me, after I had already seen his poor dear face. His skin was perhaps too taut over his spare frame; it had the same unhealthy sallowness as his face. But otherwise, he was simply a man, a very skinny, but ordinary, man.

And he was mine...

I took full advantage of my newfound freedom, tracing each poor scar, following the curve of his neck down to his shoulder with my lips, tasting, finally! the salt of his skin as his own lips tasted me, murmuring endearments against him as he whispered words of love into my own neck, tracing the contours of his breeches-clad thigh with my own as his mouth and his wonderful, calloused musician's hands wandered ever downward, ever closer to that most intimate part of me, that thrust towards him and ached for the feel of his mouth, his lips, his tongue upon it..!

It was quite some time later that, sated, I finally allowed him to finish dressing. His own fingers were lazy against my spine as he re-laced my stays for me, lingering at the nape of my neck as he lifted my hair over my collar as I donned my shirt. Leaning back into him, his arms circling my waist, I could not but smile wickedly at him, content for the moment to simply rest against him.

"Well," he murmured, giving my ear a last nibble, "Quite tired out, are we?"

"Not at all, my love," I returned, indolent, "But I think I can wait until we get home now, anyways."

"Ah, my love," and he kissed my neck; "Be kind to your poor old husband! I am not so young as once I was…"

"Oh," I breathed, my breath catching in my throat as he gently, slowly, nibbled his way to my bared shoulder, "You're a long way from your dotage!" I gasped as his hands roamed higher, and his tongue joined his teeth. "But—but if you keep doing that, we may never leave--!"

His low laughter rumbled through me, setting my stomach quivering. "And what a tragedy _that_ would be, Madame!"

He sighed, though, and pushed me away slightly, leaving my back forlorn and hungry for his warmth. "However, I suppose we really should get a proper bandage around me. For _some_ reason or other, this one seems to be slipping slightly!" He climbed to his feet, slightly awkward with me in his way, then helped me to stand upon legs that I didn't quite trust to take my weight.

However, I managed to avoid swooning into his arms, however delightful the idea seemed, and even managed to assist him into his own coat, although I must admit, the temptation to simply push him back down onto the sofa was very hard to resist. Instead, I kissed him, lingeringly, tasting myself upon his lips, and let him see the promise in my eyes. "Patience, my love," he chuckled, his own golden eyes glowing with desire; "Think of how much more comfortable our own bed will be!"

I did, and allowed him to lead me out into the dark passageway beyond, but oh, that ride home in the carriage was truly endless!

We made good use of the privacy, however, giggling and shushing each other all the way home in the darkness of the cab.

Late the next morning, as I lay in bed, lazily watching the patterns the trees outside threw upon the ceiling, I had a thought. "We _must_ go to the balls more often."

Erik sighed, still half-asleep, and murmured, "We go to every one as it is."

I smiled up at the morning. "Then they must hold them more often! What do you think?"

He opened one eye, and stroked my cheek, still clumsy with sleep. "I think that would kill me, love!"

"We can't have that…"

"No… But it would be a very _pleasant_ death!"

_finis  
_

* * *

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Please, do let me know what you thought of it. And let me tell you a story..._

_For years and years, long before I myself had started to write fanfic of any sort, I used to come here and read. Often, I would think to myself, "That was awesome!" But I never reviewed. After all, I thought, who am I? I have no stories up; I am not a reviewer by profession. Why would anyone care what **I** think?_

_But then I wrote something myself. And got my own reviews..._

_And do you know what? It **does **matter! Each and every review a writer receives is a pearl, to be treasured fondly, and reread, be it ever so humble or brief. In short, reviews are the coin for which we share our efforts; they are the air we breathe; they are the reason we write. So please, please, please, not only for my own sake, but that of all authors here, if a piece of work makes you feel anything at all, if you end it thinking anything beyond "Eh, whatever...", then, please, for the sake of the enjoyment you have had of it, hit the little blue button to the bottom left, and send a review. _

_I'm thinking of doing a few more seasonal pieces in what I rather hope may become a series; if so, Christmas would be next. Let me know what you think!_

_'Nuff said.  
_

_Much of the dressing room scene was written with the instrumental "Sarah" from the Labyrinth soundtrack on perma-loop in my headset, for those who wonder about such things. Harpsichords… Mmmmm…_

_And to anyone who ever wrote anything about "tearing through the delicate silk as though it were tissue paper", go on. Try it. I dares ya. Heh._

_Oh yeah, and 'Jean Claudin': "Jean Claude PhanTOME" from Night Court, the wonderful Phantom parody they did as a season opener back in, what was it, 1990 or so? (Gods, I'm such a dork), and Erique Claudin from the (dreadful) 1943 Claude Rains version._

_(At the masked ball at the courthouse, Dan Fielding, who's gone a little nuts and has been haunting the courthouse in Phantom drag, says "You can call me... **Phantom**!"_

_Group of guests, including the cop investigating the Fielding disappearance, and the business with the Phantom: "**Phantom?**"_

_Dan realizes his mistake. "Er... PhanTOME. Jean Claude PhanTOME. I'm French... On my mother's side..." That **still **makes me laugh...)_


End file.
